


Arthur and Ford's Excellent Misadventure

by Enigel



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-25
Updated: 2005-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigel/pseuds/Enigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Daegaer in the Yuletide 2005 Challenge</p>
    </blockquote>





	Arthur and Ford's Excellent Misadventure

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Daegaer in the Yuletide 2005 Challenge

There are very few populated places in the galaxy where the job of researcher for the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy would not grant the one who happened to bear it a warm welcome. (At least, those populated places that were worth speaking of.) So few that the probability was not considered worthy to be computed by the Guide's elusive maths staff, so Ford didn't know it either. If anyone had bothered, it would have been two to the power of... well, the exact figure is unknown because no one had bothered, but it would have been a rather high power.

A high power was precisely what Ford would have liked to believe in during the following moments, if only to have someone to swear at.

It would have been of little comfort to Ford to know just how unlikely it was that he found himself nose to snout with none other than the Chief Editor of Subsection GRH-GRJ of the _Encyclopaedia Galactica_, in whose office the careless streams and weeds of probability, tangled by the boggling wonder of science that was the Heart of Gold, had deposited Arthur and him.

(It _would_ have brought Ford some real comfort to learn that Zaphod had ended up in a much more improbable - and unpleasant - place, but when they eventually met again Zaphod managed to keep a complete and uncharacteristic silence over the incidents in Gag Halfrunt's office.)

As it is widely known, the remarkable publication that is the _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ sells spectacularly better than the _Encyclopaedia Galactica_, a fact that does not escape any editor of the latter, much less the Chief Editor in case, whose name was Plik Zafterword.

Plik Zafterword had had a rotten day, and the knowledge of Enc. Gal.'s uncertain market share weighed particularly heavy upon him. He had just escaped from a meeting with the marketing division, who deemed his section responsible for the sad state of affairs. Apparently someone followed an entry in that very subsection and the entry had proven hideously wrong, the result of which was that one less group of tourists had returned from a certain planet.

Plik had stolen the exact guilty entry from the Guide, and now fate seemed to deliver the very being responsible for his misfortune straight to him.

"I could have you arrested for trespassing, you know that?"

He grinned unpleasantly at Ford shot an intimidating look at Arthur, who missed it entirely due to still being on the floor, recovering from the effects of a probability jump.

Ford couldn't care less for the grin, but unfortunately Zafterword had the gun to back up his facials, and it was a most vile and unpleasant looking gun.

Ford tried to focus on the hand holding the gun, willing it to turn against its owner, or at least to any other angle than the one it was currently pointing in.

"Your pathetic mind tricks won't work here, you dirty, cheating bum!" bellowed Plik. "This office is insulated against any kind of telepathy, telekinesis or Schadenfreude attack!"

By that point Arthur had finished picking himself off the floor and began paying attention to the outside world again, and what he saw or heard did not convince him it had been a wise choice.

"Ford, is this another one of the aliens who are never pleased to see us?"

"Oh, I don't expect he cares much about you. As for me, I'm sure he's very pleased to meet me here."

"Oh yes, right you are, you pathetic excuse for a vagrant scribbler unworthy of the electrons you send to lie in your name!"

"So, is he going to have us arrested?" asked Arthur, proving that he had assimilated a surprising amount of the conversation that took place beforehand.

"Unfortunately, no," Ford answered grimly. "He started with that threat, so any moment now he's going to say something horrid that he _is_ going to do."

"Horrid? Noo. We're just going to take a little walk. And when I say we, I mean you and your scraggy friend here."

"You said he didn't care about me!" panicked Arthur.

"I don't. But you're either a _friend_," Plik spat the word as if the mere association with Ford would have sullied it beyond redemption, "so you deserve to go with him, or not, in which case I hope you'll make his life, the little that remains, even more miserable where he's going."

"Er. Where _are_ we going?"

* * *

The planet was warm and looked surprisingly friendly and inviting. Ford and Arthur were still under this impression when they met what could only be the natives, and held on to their delighted and relieved smiles even as the first native started emitting low, menacing sounds, even a fraction of a second after the others joined him and added the waving of sharp tools to their repertoire of greeting gestures.

"Wait, Arthur, don't do what you're about to do!"

"Why? I think it's a very reasonable reaction."

"Panic is never reasonable, at least not until you've exhausted all the other options."

"I was not about to panic, I was about to run in the opposite direction of the people with the spikes."

"No point in doing that, there are plenty of people with spikes behind us too."

Arthur looked and convinced himself that it was so, and felt the red bony fingers of panic starting to march along his spine.

* * *

"Look on the bright side," whispered Ford in the relative darkness of the holding cell, "they've allowed us to keep the _Guide_."

Arthur looked, but the only bright things he could perceive were the _Guide_'s screen and Ford's eyes, which reflected the green lights of the _Guide_'s screen and an unreasonable amount of confidence.

"Yes, because in their stereotypical stupidity they're leaving us with the most dangerous weapon, that is wont to bring about their eventual defeat and our timely and heroic escape."

Ford had learned to concentrate around Arthur. The sarcasm didn't fly completely over his head, but merely flitted by, tickled a few synapses here and there, and then went away with the knowledge that Ford had decided to ignore it.

"Many an imperilled hitchhiker has found rescue and comfort in his final hours in the pages of the _Guide_," parried Ford with a grin that teetered over the edge of sanity, but only because it wanted to infuriate its audience. "It has the best recipes for do-it-yourself drugs, after all."

* * *

This is what the _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ has to say about Grivbogks of Krulm:

> Jolly people of the eighth planet in their little peaceful star system of Krill, there's nothing more that the Grivbogks appreciate than a good laugh that comes from a particularly successful, though utterly harmless practical joke. They'll surround you by the dozen, yelling and howling until your blood chills and you regret not having invested in a good pair of slippers to stay at home in rather than a towel to tread the galaxies with, and they'll point in the most suggestive manner to a huge bowl under which a fiery fire burns, and when you're utterly convinced your fate lies deep within said bowl, they pat you on the back and offer you a taste of their delicious vegetable soup.
> 
> They'll also likely offer you lodgings for the night, which is wet and chilly in the first 3 time divisions..." and it goes on to an acrimonious description of the Krulmian weather, which has indeed its quirks and peculiarities.

A lesser known fact is that the researcher who sent this entry ended up in the bowl after all, and the Grivbogks had rubbed their bellies afterwards as one does after a particularly amusing prank and a no less successful meal.

This is unknown, however, for the obvious reason that the researcher never had the chance to send his aggravated correction to the editors, due to circumstances surrounding his eating.

(To be honest, he did have a brief chance, right before his Send-O-Mat was rendered dysfunctional by the sour juice of a vegetable almost entirely, but not completely unlike cabbage, but let's face it, who does that in real life?)

* * *

Ford was humming. Not the Betelgeusian battle hymn, all too well known to Arthur, but a cheery, confident tune, which offended Arthur's innate sense that impending peril should be treated with some solemnity. (As opposed to actual peril, when frantic running and screaming would do the job just nice.)

"I told you the Guide would help. We're as good as saved, all it takes now is a little patience and we'll be out of here in a wink."

He asserted his conviction by winking at Arthur, who immediately felt a complete lack of relief.

"And what in that thing makes you so sure we won't end up as dinner?"

"I told you. They're the biggest pranksters in the YV sector, surpassed only by... all right, I can tell you don't care to learn more about galactic culture. They love making pretence of attacking the tourists, and then explode in hearty laughter. Any time now."

"I certainly wouldn't mind the exploding part," mumbled Arthur and tried to pursue a vagrant thought.

It seemed to him that Ford's reasoning held a fatal flaw, which should be very obvious if only he could think clear. Aha.

"Ford?"

"Yes, Arthur."

"Doesn't it strike you as rather predictable, for a joke?"

"Nah. It's how these people are."

"If you think about it like they do, which by the way I really dislike doing, it's not funny if you know what they're going to do. Which is one of the reasons why I've always hated practical jokers."

Ford was frowning.

"They've let us keep the _Guide_. They don't know what it is and what it says about them. We've never had sales representatives on worlds without a form of currency."

"They've let us keep the _Guide_, so we'd read about them and be fooled into a false sense of security," pursued Arthur doggedly.

Ford looked thoughtful. Arthur hated that look.

"They'll be shaking with laughter, knowing we had expected to be invited at the dinner, and not as the dinner."

Ford blinked.

"So that's it," said Arthur, "we're going to die."

Now was the moment for Ford to express his strong disagreement. Arthur was really hoping for strong disagreement.

"And there's the matter of that obnoxious chap in whose office we were briefly located. He seemed really intent on sending us somewhere unpleasant. I think it had something to do with your being a researcher for the _Guide_."

To his horror, Ford started humming his favourite ancient Betelgeusian battle hymn, the one who was sung before a decisive battle. Decisive battles usually decided to end bad for the Betelgeusians.

* * *

The level of water in the bowl had been considerately maintained to a few inches under their chins, and the water had been pleasantly lukewarm when Arthur and Ford had been inserted into it.

The spices had a funny smell though, and some of the vegetables tickled Arthur's feet.

Ford was avoiding Arthur's gaze, which was not difficult, since Arthur was equally avoiding Ford's eyes.

The Grivbogks were milling about, chatting and checking up the quality of the fire every now and then.

Arthur coughed after the fumes of a particularly strange spice reached his throat.

"I thought you weren't talking to me," said Ford levelly, with only the barest whiff of smugness, enough to set Arthur off his guard.

"I'm not! I was just..."

"Aha! You are. It's all right, I understand how you couldn't bear to keep a grudge against your best friend..."

"...my only surviving friend, and not for long..."

"...under such circumstances," finished Ford, with less panache than he'd intended.

The whole situation was starting to get to him. Where were the manners of the good old-fashioned cannibals of Sevrinus V, who allowed their prisoners a last bottle of that Old Janx Spirit? Where were the grandiloquent Humgres of Brr'nch'lans, who offered their victims a glass of Pan-Galactic Gargleblaster prepared by the daughter of the chef herself? [1] He was really craving some simple Jin't'nix right now; but since that seemed just as unlikely to be offered as any other last treat, he preferred to think he had been deprived of a Gargleblaster. He told all of this to Arthur.

It would have disturbed Ford to know that Arthur entertained somewhat similar thoughts, but that his thoughts skipped the whole meditation about cannibal culture golden age part and went straight to the craving for a cup of tea part.

Arthur had been getting better at knowing his unpredictable friend, because he abandoned the pretence of not speaking to him and turned to Ford.

"You know what I'd really fancy now?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"I'm dying for a cup of tea," sighed Arthur.

* * *

It was really getting hot now in the microclimate of the bowl. Suddenly, they heard a commotion among the now definitely hungry natives, and looked around wildly for the source of the disturbance.

It turned out there had been a small misunderstanding about who got the first bite, and it had been settled as quick as it had started. They couldn't hear the words, but there had been some pointing at them.

"I think they were saying there is enough of us for everybody," said Arthur in a flat voice.

"I think they were counting us and deciding that the two leaders would bite simultaneously," provided Ford helpfully.

Up above them in the sky that Ford had abandoned searching for flying saucers, lights were flickering and shimmering.

Without any kind of phonic warning, a long, sleek silver ship suddenly was.

Long legs stretched out from it and stabilised it on the slightly muddy Krulmian soil.

A ramp extended itself.

Arthur boggled at it with an expression of immense dread.

"Not him!" he thought aloud.

"Who, him? You know that guy?" asked Ford.

A tall, grey-green alien had emerged from the ship.

"Oh, the jerk," growled Arthur through clenched teeth, while mentally revising his repertoire of insults.

The alien made no sign of noticing them and went on to one of the natives, holding the same alien species of clipboard that Arthur remembered with vivid hatred, yapping something at him and then making the same alien tick that Arthur recalled with no less vivid loathing.

"And now he's acting like he doesn't notice me!" yelled Arthur. "Come here, you... you jerk!"

"Arthur, you know the guy with the ship?" insisted Ford.

"Know him? I've met him twice, and he's not the kind of person you forget."

"For an untravelled Earthman, you know a lot of people. Did he gatecrash a party too?"

"Yes," said Arthur venomously. "A pity party of one. I was standing outside my cave, going out of my way to meet new people who would insult me in new and fashionable ways, and this scrawny thing here came and did just that!"

"Oh good then. Can you ask him to give us a lift?"

Arthur ignored that.

"But no, this time I'm ready. I'm no longer the half-crazed accidental cave dweller I'd been the first time. Hear that, intergalactic jerk?" he yelled at Wowbagger, who was impassibly going from a Grivbogk to the other [2]. "I'm a seasoned hitchhiker now, and now I'll tell you exactly what I think about you!"

"Yes, 'seasoned' seems about the right word, Arthur," Ford pointed impatiently at the water around them, brightly coloured with the essence of countless alien spices. "Are you sure a nice apology wouldn't get you back in the guy's good books?"

"I don't think he has any! Wait, an apology? From me? He started it!"

"He's the guy with the spaceship. You must have said some ugly things in return."

Arthur went suddenly quiet.

"What did you say to him?"

Arthur found it very unfair to be forced to relive that particular episode, especially in his last day of life.

"I told you I hadn't spoken to anyone in years. I had a lot of things I wanted to say. My mouth was having some trouble shaping the words, that's all. Trees had never insulted me. All right, no."

"Good, then all is not lost."

Ford had found his verve again. It shone in his characteristically wide grin, which had some of the nearby Grivbogks worry that insanity might take through ingestion.

"Hey, you! The hoopy frood with the spaceship!"

Wowbagger ignored him until he had finished with the Grivbogks. Then he frowned and approached the bowl.

"What's your name?"

"Er, most recently known as Ford Prefect."

"You'll have to wait your turn. I'm barely at B."

"Ah, see, we're a bit against the clock here, time is an issue, so..."

"If you're in such a hurry, I can do you right now, you cowardly scoundrel, cheater and liar," obliged Wowbagger, "but this is off the record. I have a strict order about things. You'll get more when I get to you."

Ford was beginning to perceive some of Arthur's frustration with the alien.

"Look, you can insult me and my friend all you want, but take us out of here."

Wowbagger turned and began walking towards the ramp.

Ford frowned and concentrated on recalling something, a tidbit of Earth's lost culture, part of which he had inevitably absorbed during his fifteen years exile.

"Hey, you scoundrel, you miserable fool, we're exactly what your pathetic excuse for a space tin can needs to get you out of your mindless boredom!"

Arthur stared at him.

"Thank you for voicing my thoughts. I'm glad you got over the apology idea. Is this some new way of soliciting a hitch that I have not previously thought of?"

"Shh," whispered Ford. "Look, he's coming back!"

Wowbagger took out his clipboard again and yapped something. He had missed one of the Grivbogks.

"Look, he's leaving again," remarked Arthur acidly.

"You callous vagabond!" yelled Ford. "Take us with you and there won't be a slur word I know that I won't share with you!"

Wowbagger entered the ship. The ship rose smoothly into the air.

Then Ford and Arthur were becoming the air between the bowl and ship. Mind and atoms spanned and sighed. They thought they could see simultaneously trees, surprised Grivbogks and a polished, silvery surface. Their viewing angle spanned all three hundred sixty degrees around them in a mind-altering vortex of perceptions. Then suddenly it all resolved into a hard, silvery white surface, the distinct feeling of a cold floor and a curious sound like a hundred monkeys singing a punk song [3].

"Hey," grinned Ford when he could find his voice again, "it must have worked."

"Was there any on-going plan of yours that I failed to notice?" Arthur wanted to groan from his stable position on the floor.

What came out was actually more like "Wwrghg mmng plffs?"

"Arthur, are you all right? Peanuts would be good right now. Oh here, you've still got some vegetables on you. It's the effect of the matter transference beam, you see. This ship must have some really cutting-edge technology. You should try eating this," Ford proffered a piece of carrot-looking vegetable he'd picked from Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur took his eyes away from the floor so he could better look at Ford with sickened horror.

"Suit yourself," shrugged Ford and made a show out of nonchalantly chewing the alien carrot, who was completely unlike carrots in all other respects than colour, and tasted rather vile.

"Ford? You still haven't explained what exactly has 'worked' to get us out of there."

"It's all about adaptation, Arthur. I've seen it in a movie once. You have to show them that you get them, you get their culture."

"Ah, excuse me?" a high-pitched, disembodied voice intervened.

No reply came, so the voice considered itself excused.

"I'm Ed, the ship's computer. I picked up a signal from an Electronic Thumb, was that yours? I think it was. You looked like you could use being picked up back there. You did, didn't you?"

Ford was the first to recover his cool. He opened his mouth to say something.

"Ah, you don't have to thank me, really, guys! Just doing my job, being nice, bringing cheer and enthusiasm wherever I go!"

Arthur opened his mouth to say something else.

"Oh, I know what you want to ask, don't I? I think I do. Why do I hang around with Wowbagger? He's not quite about spreading joy and cheer, is he? I think he's not, but see, Wowbagger's just this guy, you know? That, and he bought me. His old computer had died of old age, so he had to buy me. I'm Ed, have I mentioned that? I'm a second generation GPP Cheerful Ship Companion, straight from the banks of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. You can tell, can't you?" asked Ed proudly and didn't wait for confirmation.

Ford had laid himself down on the floor again, and he was laughing. Small giggles at first, then he was shaking and rolling. Arthur had never seen him so amused before, but he looked at Ford impassively nonetheless. He knew better than to be impressed. Now and then Ford stopped to gaze around him and point at the screens. Eventually he sobered, under Arthur's level gaze.

"The aliens, Arthur," he said, "they might not like us, but at least the ships seem to be quite fond of us."

"Ed?" he looked at one of the screens for no reason in particular.

"Yes and hello, Mr. Prefect, I think you are called?"

"Ed, can you, without negatively affecting the navigational system, make a cup of tea for my friend Arthur here?"

As Ed found itself busy, Ford patted Arthur on the back. Tiny drops of Krulmian soup bounced away from the soaked fabric.

"I told you not to panic."

"Yes, you did. It's what you always say."

"And I am always right."

"It's not like I could get a chance to say 'I told you panic was in order' if you were ever wrong."

"One of the benefits of having a positive outlook on life."

"Is a positive outlook on life the kind of outlook that would file this," Arthur made a vague gesture to where he figured the ground was, "under 'excitement, adventure and really wild things'?"

Ford appeared to ponder the question.

"No, that's the zany, maniacal outlook. The positive outlook files this under 'dumb luck'."

"Of course it does. I was merely asking for information," said Arthur and began sipping the tea that Ed prepared. It was very good, for a second-generation computer emerged out of the doomed halls of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation. He soon found himself nodding off to sleep.

* * *

"Good morning, Arthur!"

"Is it?"

"I thought you might want to know that we'll soon be arriving at Wowbagger's next destination."

"Really."

Arthur yawned and cautiously opened one eye.

"I could hardly wait. Where are we heading to?"

Ford waited until Arthur had opened both eyes and focused them on him.

"Excitement, adventure, and _really_ wild things," he said, grinning from ear to ear.

* * *

[1] A greater honour than one might think. Due to the importance that Humgres placed on the proper preparing of their food, the chief and the chef were one and the same.

[2] Another fact about Grivbogks that will likely never make its way in either the _Encyclopaedia Galactica_ or _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ is that the Grivbogks find it very funny to have identical names, using only a suffix to differentiate between them.

[3] The curious sound that reeled in their ears and that they attributed to the effects of the matter transference beam was, in fact, the unleashed laughter of a hundred hungry Grivbogks, who were among the very few species in the galaxy who could appreciate a good joke even if they were at the receiving end.


End file.
